


carving out our names into the air

by tannoreth



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M, UST, look i just want it to be warm already
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2018-01-19 19:21:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1481122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tannoreth/pseuds/tannoreth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tevinter was hotter, the air equally sticky, but Kirkwall is worse somehow. At least in the open pavilions of Tevinter you could catch breezes. Kirkwall’s narrow streets and tall buildings keep the air and the stink close. Oppressive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	carving out our names into the air

The summer hangs heavy and sticky on Kirkwall. Clouds squat low in the sky, refusing to drop the rain their bulging bellies promise. The city has been dry for nearly a month, but the sea makes the air so damp it’s still like swimming just to go outside. Summers in Lowtown stink of fish and too many people in too little space, but between the beggars and the Orlesian perfumes and the general unwashed state of Kirkwall’s citizens Hightown isn’t much better. The Templars standing guard in the Gallows look miserable and wrung out in their heavy armor, the backs of their necks burned red. Everyone avoids Anders’ clinic.

Hawke, used to cool Ferelden summers, drags them out to the Wounded Coast and up Sundermount as much as he can. Outside the city, the heat is still oppressive and the air still thick, but at least it only smells like the sea.

Tevinter was hotter, the air equally sticky, but Kirkwall is worse somehow. At least in the open pavilions of Tevinter you could catch breezes. Kirkwall’s narrow streets and tall buildings keep the air and the stink close. Oppressive.

Out on the Wounded Coast, Hawke leads them to a cove beach. Isabela and Merrill pull off their boots and run into the ocean. Hawke follows after more slowly, pulling off his shirt and rolling his shoulder against the soreness where he wrenched it in their fight earlier.

Fenris strips off his armor, down to a sleeveless undershirt and leggings. He sits down in the tiny patch of shade created by a scraggly bush yards from the waterline, wonders if this looks too antisocial, stands and jogs lightly across the sun-baked beach on bare feet down to the wet sand by the water’s edge.

The water quickly turns Isabela’s white tunic transparent. She tosses her wet hair back, water coming from it in sparkling droplets, and winks when she catches his gaze. Fenris drops his eyes to the sand, although it’s hardly more than she usually shows off, or what he knows she’d be willing to show him if he only said the word. He digs a finger into the wet sand, idly drawing patterns.

He feels the coolness of a shadow a moment before Hawke collapses next to him, never one to be concerned much with boundaries. His legs are thrown over Fenris’. The extra heat from his body isn’t pleasant, not exactly, but Fenris’ mind feels as slow and thick as the air, and he can’t summon up a protest.

“Maker, I miss Lothering sometimes,” Hawke says without preamble.

Fenris inclines his head, raises his eyebrows slightly, and after years of dealing with Fenris’ reticence Hawke knows this is an invitation to continue.

“As cold and brown as Ferelden is, at least it _rained._ Was.” Hawke twists onto his side to take the pressure off his injured shoulder. Sand is stuck to his wet back. Fenris resists the urge to brush it away, and digs his hand into the sand until the scrape against the markings makes him wince.

“You could go back.” When Hawke frowns, Fenris adds, “Not permanently. Just for the summer. You could resolve any unfinished business.”

A laugh that sounds more like a bark. “Between the darkspawn and being gone for four years I’m pretty sure my unfinished business has resolved itself.”

“Perhaps.”

“Anyway.” Hawke lays back against the sand, one arm behind his head. “I don’t know if I’d want to think about whatever problems I left in Ferelden. Kirkwall seems to have enough problems to keep me occupied.”

Fenris nods and stares out across the sea. Far away, past all the broken juts of rock that dot the Wounded Coast, sunlight sparkles on the water.

 _Sometimes I miss certain things about Tevinter,_ he wants to say, but he isn’t sure if he means it as reassurance or to inspire pity. It might not be very reassuring anyway, for Fenris to compare Hawke’s past to his own. He certainly doesn’t want Hawke’s pity.

Hawke swings his legs off of Fenris to sit cross-legged on the sand next to him. He leaves wet marks on Fenris’ leggings. The sea breeze across the dampness actually feels cool. Hawke catches the direction of Fenris’ gaze and also looks out at the water.

“Have you slept with her? Isabela.”

Fenris beats down the surprise from his face at the sudden question. “No,” he says, and then beats down the urge to add, _Have you?_ Truthfully, he doesn’t want to know. A _yes_ would feel too much like a betrayal, a _no_ too much like hope.

Instead, he says, “It’s not wrong to miss a thing that you no longer want to return to.”

Hawke looks at him with eyebrows raised. “You should tell that one to Varric. He might use it in his next book.”

Fenris shrugs. The sun breaks through the clouds properly and he has to squint and look away.

Hawke claps him on the shoulder as he stands. “Thank you. Suppose we should get moving if we want to get back to the city before nightfall.”

Damp sand and heat cling to his shoulder when Hawke lets go, and he makes no move to brush it away. _Thank you_ rings in his ears. He stands, dances across the hot sand again to the spot where he discarded his armor. Isabela and Merrill wring themselves out, and, damply, they set off back to the high walls and thick heat of Kirkwall’s summer.


End file.
